Here I post about all things fantasy and give tips on writing a book based on my experience. My three main books form a trilogy called the Prophecy of the Kings, a Gold Award Winning book, and I've also written Drachar's Demons. Happy to chat so please feel free to comment on any of my blogs. Good reading - David

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Wednesday, 4 November 2015

Short (Sad) Story for Armistice Day

This is where I had died.

I stood
overlooking verdant fields that were alien to me. In my day this was mud and
shell craters; barbed wire and death. Even the sky was different, intensely
blue and probably crisp on this October day. Ghosts do not feel cold, but I
remember it, clutching my rifle which seemed to suck the heat from my hands. My
hands white and nerveless, shaking from cold and fear.

I looked to my
left; others were appearing. Friends and comrades that I had known so well in a
past so long ago. Jack nodded to me, a smile hovering on his lips. I nodded
back, a response enacted every year on this day. My actions were not my own,
this was how it had happened. I knew what was to come, but I could not change
it. I was in a play and we were mannequin's, our strings pulled by an unseen
hand, making us dance to a tune no longer remembered.

Corporals
dressed the line, there was no sound, ghosts do not hear, but I could see Old
Frank's mouth forming the words I knew so well. Old Frank was his nickname, but
he wasn't old. Twenty three, whereas I was twenty. We looked up to him; he
seemed to know what to do and when and we followed him. That I couldn't hear
him was a blessing in anticipation of the hell to come.

To my right
others were appearing. Why did we dress the line? I no longer remembered. It
was probably important once, but not now. The line was moving and I took a few
steps. Tentative at first and then more firmly. We were the second wave and the
men in front of us, including Frank, blocked our view. We could afford to be
brave for that line of soft, yielding flesh was a barrier against the hail of
lead to come. Such an inadequate and over used phrase to describe the reality
of war. One throw away line that encompasses all the terror and horror to come.
I cried, but tears would not come, the puppet master had not yet decided it was
time for tears.

What a waste.
I had wanted a wife and children and even grandchildren perhaps. A dream far
too distant for a twenty year old boy. All too soon someone fell in the line in
front and to my right. It looked as though he had tripped. My eyes were riveted
on the men in front of me, praying that my protection would remain. I needed
them to absorb the horror to come. Perhaps this time I would live? I remembered
hope and prayers. My eyes flickered to the heavens. It was at this point that
Old Frank had sworn, his left arm ripped from his body as something unseen violated
his body. A preacher had told me that swearing was a sin. I prayed that Old
Frank went to heaven and not hell. Swearing was not too bad. Not among all
this terror. Please God, forgive Frank and do not commit his soul to purgatory.

His blood and
flesh had splattered my face and I ducked, as I had done, so many years ago. I
felt the warmth of his blood and remembered the copper taste of his blood in my
mouth. I spat and wanted to vomit. This was not how war was meant to be. When
we joined up we had talked of heroic deeds and how swiftly the enemy would
capitulate.

A gap had
formed in the line of men to my front and I could see the barbed wire and
beyond that the enemy trench. Terror tore at my heart. I remember I had wailed
then, not for Frank but out of fear for myself. I felt the wind of a round
buffet my cheek and my wail turned to a scream. That had been close and I
looked to my left just as Jack spun on the spot; I watched as he collapsed to
the ground; I could almost hear the puppet master's glee as his strings were
cut. Jack, a furrier from Blackheath. A man who had comforted me as I crouched
crying at the bottom of our trench last night, so long ago. He had given me his
chocolate. Such a princely gift in this time of deprivation and squalor.

I crouched as
more men in the front line fell. Blood misted the air and again I tasted it's
coppery tang. I wiped my eyes, nearly dropping my rifle and having to fumble to
hold it firm. I should have dropped it. I should have jumped in a shell hole
like some men did. The terror of failure and cowardice outshone the fear of
bullets. Why? Bullets are far more deadly; a testimony to the front rank
thinning dangerously now to the point that we were the first wave. I could see
helmets above the enemy trench and flashes from muzzles. I remember the sound:
the din, the screams and the bangs and the thumps. The slap of something fast
hitting flesh. Men to my side fell and I stumbled, thinking that I was hit. I
remember the screams of incoherent rage from my remaining comrades, the only
act of defiance as we walked to our deaths. The enemy suffered then, our
screams must have haunted their dreams. We suffered more though. Flesh against
lead. It was a very uneven contest.

Simon fell. We
had worked at the same hop farm for several summers past. Our summer holiday
away from the colourless terrace street we called home. A different life. Cool
summer evenings spent outdoors under cloudless skies. Stars rather than shells.
I prayed that I was invisible, which I was. I was a ghost and yet terror tore
at every fibre of my once body. Memory is a terrible thing. I remember men funnelling
towards a gap in the wire. We had been told not to do this. It was a death trap
covered by more than one machine gun. Such a terrible weapon where more than
one round span bodies around, the puppet master working hard, tugging at
strings in time to some forgotten beat.

My time was
coming. I remember no longer caring. Death was better than this hell. Was I a
coward? I still walked forward, but my rifle was forgotten. I was doing my
duty, sacrificing myself for my king. I couldn't even claim that. I had been
told to advance. I had been trained to do so. Failure and the fear of cowardice
still dogging my steps.

I spun then as
something punched me in the kidney and then the other way as something slapped
my right shoulder impossibly hard. The sky and the earth exchanged places and I
looked up into a blue sky, a bird winging its way as though fleeing the battle.
I should have done that. I should have had the sense to flee. I would have had
children and spent my summers working at the hop farm. Life was leaving my
body. I remembered the pain fading and night surrounding me.

Legacy of the Eldric

Shadow of the Demon

David Burrows Bio

Hi all. I’m an avid reader of fantasy and count Tolkien, Irvine, Goodkind and
Rowling amongst my favourites. I am also keen on Saxon/Viking re-enactment
where I learned the brutal reality of fighting in a shield wall. I can tell you
it hurts and have cracked fingers and ribs on several occasions. That might
just be me being a clumsy fighter! Not sure - and I certainly hope that’s not
the case. :)

Writing has become my main hobby. I am a self published
author. This is not an easy route and I have come across many pitfalls along
the way. I’ve written a fantasy trilogy The Prophecy of the Kings, which
comprises Legacy of the Eldric, Dragon Rider and Shadow of the Demon - sample
chapters and reviews can be found on my website.That is the beauty of self publishing - I can
show you my work to let you decide if it’s for you. I have just written
Drachar’s Demons which I thoroughly enjoyed writing. I had help from Earmie, a
close friend - but living an ocean away. She has a terrific grasp of English
and helps me to fill in the gaps.

My work is getting some really excellent reviews. I think my books
will definitely appeal to core fantasy readers. In some reviews, Prophecy of
the Kings is being described as traditional fantasy. I guess that’s in a
similar vein to the Lord of the Rings. I’m not claiming it’s anywhere near as
good! I am a Tolkien fan through and through and he is definitely my
inspiration. Reviews are saying my work is different to his and the characters
and world I have created are unique to me.

The plot is complicated, but the books generally are
described as easy to read. Some reviewers want more in the way of character
development, although some reviewers really like my characters and are content
as is. I do enjoy hearing other people’s interpretations about my characters,
so not giving too much away is good sometimes.

Being self published, I rely on word of mouth, so if you
enjoyed my books please, please spread the word - on Amazon, Facebook, Twitter
or all of these! I need fans so join me and please spread the word.

My interest in fantasy started with Princess of Mars, The
Lord of the Rings. And probably Dune next! Motivated by LOTR I put pen to
paper, determined to create a story with bold characters and an intriguing
plot. The book's initial scene was a betrayal set deep in the heart of a
mountain. Encouraged by my friends, I started writing The Prophecy of the Kings
in the months during my wife’s pregnancy with the first of my two terrific
sons.

As with most aspiring authors, writing is part time, with
the plots progressing in the evenings and holidays. At times the PotK tale
seemed to naturally take the characters into extreme peril, and for months I
was left wondering as to their fate. Refusing to rewrite the tale to rescue
them I patiently waited before inspiration struck and the story continued at a
fast pace to the next cliff-hanger. Suffice to say my sons have now grown up
and, as the quill dries, are of an age to read and appreciate this work. As to
the characters in my tale, they too have grown older and wiser; as to whether
they survived the tale, only reading the novel will tell.